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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27280906">Cover The Stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouBlitheringIdiot/pseuds/YouBlitheringIdiot'>YouBlitheringIdiot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Can Be Heroes - canon marauders ending [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Halloween 1981, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), alternative ending to we can be heroes, canon marauders ending, i prefer my ending, remus after halloween 1981, stupid tragic canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:41:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,796</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27280906</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouBlitheringIdiot/pseuds/YouBlitheringIdiot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After 31st October 1981, Remus thinks nothing makes any sense...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Can Be Heroes - canon marauders ending [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cover The Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyMaryMarie/gifts">MollyMaryMarie</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnockturnAlleyBoy/gifts">KnockturnAlleyBoy</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For MollyMaryMarie -  for all your cheerleading &amp; support with this story<br/>and for KockturnAlleyBoy -   as a thank you for your kindness</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Part I : <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27285133">The Very End</a>  is the canon ending to James and Lily's story, or Halloween 1981. </p><p>If you have read We Can Be Heroes, this is the tragic/canon ending version. </p><p>Part II : <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658001">It's Not the Cold that Seeps into his Bones</a> is Sirius’ POV </p><p>Part III: this is Remus' POV...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Part III: Cover The Stars</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t make any sense.</p><p>He knew everything about Sirius Black. Everything. Every stupid, insignificant detail. The fact that he liked his coffee strong, a black espresso, except at weekends (Americano), before Order stakeouts (three sugars) and when hungover (four sugars and a dollop of cream). The fact that he liked his toast buttered and cut into triangles. That he usually only ever wore black, glorious in black, but otherwise knew exactly what colours suited him best – lemon yellow with black, dusty pink with grey, crimson red, any of James’ charcoal grey tops, any cool blues and (even occasionally) greens – cerulean, royal blue, jade, mint. That he had never owned a brown or beige item of clothing in his entire life. The fact that he loved kissing in the rain, or serenading him in French under an umbrella, but hated getting his socks wet. All his different smiles – his mildly-entertained-yet-also-irritated smile, his couldn’t-give-a-flying-fuck smirk, his gloriously smitten, besotted, I’m-head-over-heels-in-love-with-you smile, his radiating-joy-and-utterly-adoring-Godfather look, the smile he gets when he’s teasing James, the way it grows the more James hams up the fake outrage, until he bursts out laughing, eyes meeting his brothers’ like he thinks James is the best thing, James-</p><p>The fact that Sirius didn’t really love him, that it had all been a lie, that made sense, logically. He wonders how he ever allowed himself to harbour such delusions. That someone as dazzlingly brilliant, charismatic, charming, as beautiful as Sirius Black would fall in love with him? Pathetic. It’s just.. it had felt so real. Sirius’ husky voice breathing in his ear, his hand gently tracing his scars, his fervent, desperate kisses. A nonentity, a half-breed, futureless, reliant on his friends’ charity... how utterly stupid. He had never let himself fully believe it, even then. How had he ever...<br/><br/>But James? That was real. That was fucking real. Nobody will convince him otherwise. Sirius’s love for James. He adored him. He could do no wrong in his eyes. He could tease James mercilessly (and vice versa) but if anyone outside the Marauders dared say one word against him, even in jest, let alone aim a wand in his direction? He loved James, he fucking risked his life to save his brother’s, he has witnessed it himself, countless times (as did James, in equal measure). James was his lifeline, his anchor. He adored the Potters, his saviours. The way Sirius nearly drove himself mad with frantic worry when James hovered between life and death after Voldemort’s men tortured him? Why would he betray his brother and best friend to Voldemort? Why? <em>Why?</em></p><p>He feels numb.</p><p>He can’t have imagined it all, can he? Sirius’ hours of entertaining baby Harry, giddy with countless transformations into Padfoot, making Harry shriek with delight and clapping his tiny chubby hands? Tenderly kissing the baby’s forehead, murmuring hushed lullabies, staying up late to give his parents a much-needed sleep? Volunteering for additional missions with the Order, to reduce the risk of Harry losing his parents, becoming an orphan-</p><p>“No!” he says out loud, gripping the side of the kitchen table and struggling to hold himself together.</p><p>Why? <em>Why?</em> It doesn’t make any sense!</p><p>He knows Sirius Black, he <em>knows</em> him. He knows the wary, resigned, fight-or-flight look in his eyes if anyone mentioned Walburga, his jaw immediately tensing. He knows the sneering, vicious, condescending tone if he heard a pureblood belittling a muggleborn. The unguarded tenderness in his clear grey eyes when he awoke from a full-moon, groggy, mouth tasting of blood, unable to move without hissing in pain. The way his right hand would hover over his temple, as though asking for permission, before gently sweeping back the hair plastered onto the side of his face, the soothing tones of “We’ve got you, Moony.” He knows how much he hates Voldemort, detests his pureblood cousins, despises the bigoted fanatics, hates-</p><p>He remembers seeing Sirius’ face when Dumbledore called an urgent Order meeting, a fortnight ago, when he told them Voldemort had killed Dorcas, personally, sending back an elegant piece of parchment, along with her broken wand, confirming where they could collect her body. Sirius, who had used their two-way mirrors to tell Lily and James that Marlene and her entire family had been killed by Death Eaters after they went into hiding, before Harry’s first birthday. They were supposed to go on a date the night Marlene was killed, Dorcas and Marlene, but they had argued over a dangerous mission, things had spiralled, and Marlene had stormed off. Dorcas couldn’t forgive herself. Peter said he had never seen Sirius so shaken, so devastated, trying to stop Dorcas apparating straight to Lestrange Manor. He was on a werewolf mission when Marlene died, and when he got back, Sirius was paranoid, thought he was the spy. When they found out Dorcas was dead, Sirius had to leave the room, he could hear him punching the stone wall outside, repeatedly. He was too scared to go and try to comfort him, after seeing the hollow, heart-broken look Sirius had cast him as he left, believing him to be the spy.</p><p>That anguish was real.<em> It was real.</em></p><p>“Fuck!” he rasps, a violent tremor running down his spine.</p><p>Sirius Black is shit at hiding his emotions. He tries, Merlin he tries, keeping his back straight and his lips tightly pressed together, but his eyes? Those beautiful eyes always give him away – too passionate, too furious, too desperate. He feels too much. There is limited capacity for disguise, for deception there, his emotional dysregulation always used as a tool against him by those who would see him fail or fall – Snape, Walburga, Mulciber, Bellatrix. It can’t be true, not his Sirius, his desperately loyal, unfailingly brave, his, his, his…</p><p>Was it all an act? He seemed so haunted when he accused Remus of being the spy? Why would he be so cruel? It cannot be true.</p><p>An image flashes before his eyes – Sirius’ face after The Prank, at the end of Fifth Year. He is capable of cruelty…</p><p>His eyes fall onto the crumpled copy of <em>The Daily Prophet</em> in front of him, the one with the black and white photograph of a man behind bars, black hair in disarray, black stubble on his sharp jaw, a haunted look in his eyes, laughing, laughing manically, laughing…</p><p>They captured his cousin Bellatrix on the first of November, she is now in Azkaban, with him. The Black family had mounted a legal challenge, as soon as she was arrested, but Bellatrix refused to enter a plea of innocence, screaming her undying devotion to Lord Voldemort. He can’t help thinking that neither Walburga nor the extended family had fought for Sirius Black to be afforded a trial. Even if he is guilty, he should have had a fair trial; Remus thinks. The Prophet reports that Walburga Black sent an owl to Sirius while he was in custody, awaiting transfer to Azkaban. What did she say to him? Were they reconciled? It seems so unlikely. This morning’s edition of The Prophet reports that Bellatrix and Barty Crouch Jr. both confirmed independently that Sirius Black was working for Voldemort for over a year. Bellatrix is quoted as saying “You pathetic little fools! He was always a Black, did you really think he would betray his blood?”</p><p>In the photograph of Bellatrix she is laughing, laughing hysterically, she looks so deranged, the resemblance is there…</p><p>There is no way to put into words, to explain, how he feels, what to make of this… this…</p><p>Remus Lupin, at times self-effacing and lacking in confidence, at times the most eloquent student in his class, due to his love of words, his extensive vocabulary. What was this ability, this desire, to find the perfect word to express himself, but a need for control, to feel a sense of mastery? All is wordless now. A sea of numbness or a wall of overwhelming emotion – he has no idea. This… this is-</p><p>
  <em>“How are you bearing up, Moony?” James would ask.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m fine, Prongs,” he would answer, always, even after a horrific mission.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Fine? You know what fine stands for?” James would reply, folding his arms. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic. Emotional,” he would say, with a dry laugh. “That’s me.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Looks like we’re all fine so,” James would laugh too. “All fucking fine, the lot of us!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And inevitably, he would talk to Prongs. He could never refuse that man anything.</em>
</p><p>This is not right, it cannot be true, it’s not possible. It’s not… it can’t.. why…</p><p>James’ face flashes before his eyes, looking relaxed, grinning mischievously, like he wants to hug him, always such a demonstrative man, he opens his mouth, he’s speaking, but Remus cannot hear him.  He can’t remember what James’ voice sounds like. He hadn’t seen them, spoken to them, in months, never said goodbye.</p><p>He can’t remember.</p><p>It’s a howl of rage or of blinding pain, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He can’t think. His mind is blank. He picks up the end of the kitchen table and hurls it violently across the room, sends it crashing against the wall, smashing the crockery, Alphard’s dainty cupboards in ruins. It doesn’t help. His pulse races. He moves to the display cabinet, with the pretty Flora Danica antique plates, the ones with the blackberry flowers. He grabs a plate, one with each hand, and begins to hurl them furiously against the opposite side of the room, one after another, smashing, shattering, emptying the entire shelf. He pauses, catches his breath, and glances up.</p><p>
  <em>“You need to talk yourself down!” </em>
</p><p>That’s what Lily would have said to him, with a smile and a cup of strong tea, when he got himself all worked up before stupid class tests, or panicked before the NEWTs, reminding him of his exam record to date.</p><p>He would have been tempted to retort in a snarky way years ago, except he knows that glint in her eyes, she <em>knows</em> she’ll win this debate, and she will. He might remind her of this the next time she’s fretting over Transfiguration. He rolls his eyes and lets her win him around, especially after seeing her handle herself during James’ trial, he knows it’s pointless to argue with-</p><p>She’s dead. He won’t speak to her again.</p><p>He starts dry retching.</p><p>Lily is dead. So is James. Harry has no parents, and Dumbledore has sent him off to live with Petunia, fucking Petunia and her bastard husband, who hated James, who basically disowned Lily. He would have asked Dumbledore to let him care for Harry, let him adopt Harry. But. When he heard what Dumbledore did, he opened his mouth as though to ask him and Dumbledore shook his head, firmly. He isn’t safe. He has no money. He’s homeless. Not even a thank you, no recompense for Order members, nothing. They were after all an underground, anti-establishment, unofficial organisation.</p><p>He thinks he might laugh at the tragedy of it all.</p><p>His eyes catch sight of the photograph once more, still moving, still laughing, manically. Still beautiful.</p><p>“Argh!”</p><p>He doesn’t know what he is trying to say, his fingers grip his hair, and he pulls, staring dumbstruck at a tuft of hair in his right hand. He has succeeded in frightening himself. He never understood the phrase “tearing your hair out in frustration” but now he does.</p><p>
  <em>It doesn’t make any sense. </em>
</p><p>Peter is dead too. Poor Peter, he thinks.</p><p>“What the fuck possessed you to go after him?” he says aloud.</p><p>Such a wholly reckless, stupid, most un-Wormy thing to do. It doesn’t make any sense.</p><p>He’s still looking at the clump of hair in his hands.</p><p>“Remus?”</p><p>He glances right to the kitchen door. Minerva Mc Gonagall stands there. She has aged at least ten years in the space of a few days. Her eyes are bloodshot, there are bags and wrinkles around her eyes that didn’t exist last week. She’s worried about him, her eyes flit around the chaos.</p><p>“Sorry,” he whispers hoarsely.</p><p>She shakes her head immediately, unable to speak for a moment, smoothing out her cloak with trembling fingers.</p><p>“Do you still want…” her voice trails off, she seems unsure whether she should come over to him.</p><p>He can’t let himself hug her, or he may completely fall apart. He gets the feeling she feels the same.</p><p>He nods.</p><p>They apparate to the same hilltop where they buried Mia and Monty Potter, not so long ago, Peter singing their favourite song, him playing his bittersweet violin, while James and Lily danced. They don’t dance now.</p><p>He agreed to say a few words, but he cannot give a fitting eulogy. Nothing he can say will be enough. Peter’s funeral was yesterday. He doesn’t know how he managed it. He doesn’t know how he has the strength to stand here today, November 3<sup>rd</sup> 1981. The crowd spilling outside who look back at him are mostly strangers, many of them relieved, no happy, delighted, that Voldemort is dead, that the war is over. He spots Emmaline all alone, who tries to give him an encouraging tearful smile, poor Emma, all her friends dead. Fuck. But he can’t be there for her, he can’t. All his friends are gone too. And his lover did this. He sees Aberforth, who accused Sirius of being the spy. He and Dedalus Diggle, who also accused him. Maybe they think he had a role in this, with Black?</p><p>Petunia didn’t come. She didn’t fucking come. And yet Dumbledore entrusted Harry to her and her husband. He imagines himself ripping the pulpit off and hurling it at Petunia.</p><p>Alice and Frank aren’t here. They don’t think that the Healers will be able to help them. They have a baby, like the Potters. Why is he still alive, when the Potters are dead and the Longbottoms beyond aid? There is just no way,<em> no way</em>, that his Sirius is like those people who tortured Alice and Frank into insanity.  His Sirius, his Sirius…</p><p>Peter Pettigrew confronted Black and all that remained was a single digit, his left little finger, with the two slash marks over the knuckles. The injury from their first night in the Forbidden Forest as Animagi.</p><p>His hands are gripping the edges of the slanted lectern top so tightly.</p><p>He looks at the page torn out from his muggle notebook.</p><p><em>“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others”</em> – Pericles</p><p> </p><p>……………………………………………………………..</p><p> </p><p>A solitary rat hides beneath the organ. He has been here since yesterday’s funeral. He is hungry, his head twitches from side to side, staccato furtive glances, terrified of being caught. But as soon as Remus starts to speak, he covers his ears, as though listening to him is unbearable, and slinks away.</p><p> </p><p>……………………………………………………………..</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Why would he have betrayed them? It doesn’t make any sense… </em>
</p><p>They are standing in front of the tall poplar trees now, beside the two newly dug graves, lying side by side. Remus hasn’t cried since he found out they were murdered, that Harry is alone. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to cry again.</p><p>He feels nothing. And rage. Nothing makes any sense…</p><p>The last time he slept, he dreamt he was in Azkaban, Sirius Black was crying, shouting that he was innocent, that it wasn’t him. He is so weak, he still loves him, the murderer who killed all his best friends. He hates himself. He has no idea, no plan, for what he will do, where he will go. Inevitably, he will cope, whatever that means, he always has.</p><p>He thinks he might laugh at the tragedy of it all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>……………………………….</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Cover the Stars</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“If I could cover your memory </em>
</p><p>
  <em>With blanket hate </em>
</p><p>
  <em>In dreams I shield my eyes</em>
</p><p>
  <em>From your smile,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You were my brightest star</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Hands gliding across piano keys</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Into hollow dust</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My only words</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Are howling at the moon, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ghosts refuse to dance</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Amid the ruins</em>
</p><p>
  <em>All is wordless now</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You have woven heartbreak</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Into the lives of others,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your legacy”</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>- Remus Lupin, poem written to Sirius Black (unsent), November 1981</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*****************************</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Note</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>If anyone is interested in reading the entire backstory, the marauders from after The Prank at the end of 5<sup>th</sup> Year in Hogwarts to Halloween 1981, you can read <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/12512868">We Can Be Heroes</a> which btw has a happy ending...</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Once more, fuck canon...<br/>(This is not my version of canon, but I had to tell this story too)<br/>Any comments are very much appreciated, I love Remus Lupin and I hate the idea of him alone here</p></blockquote></div></div>
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